


State of My Head

by thiswouldbeakick



Category: Justified
Genre: Gen, Whump, mentions of ptsd in later chapters, raylan givens whump, tim gutterson whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:34:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24276697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thiswouldbeakick/pseuds/thiswouldbeakick
Summary: 'Raylan had taken only two strides, before the gunshot resonated through the house. The bullet hit him with the force of a sledgehammer.' A case does not go according to plan... Raylan and Tim whump. Please R and R.
Comments: 12
Kudos: 42





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This will be a multi-chaptered fic. I estimate about four to five chapters. It will be mainly Raylan- and Tim-centric.  
> Involves Raylan and Tim whump. Warnings in later chapters for mentions of PTSD.
> 
> Hope you'll like this first chapter. The second chapter will be up as soon as possible.  
> All favs, follows and reviews are highly appreciated ;-)

"Tim, where's Raylan?"

Art walked out of his office and onto the floor that housed the workspaces of his team. He stopped among the desks, and frowned at the empty seat that should house his deputy.  
"Out," Tim answered without looking up from the case file he was reading.  
"Tim…" Art sighed grumpily at this unsatisfactory answer.  
Tim looked up and leaned back in his chair, locking his fingers behind his head.  
"He got a call from the witness from that drugs bust a few weeks back," he started, "something about some questions regarding the court proceedings. Raylan feared the witness might be recanting, so he went over there straight away."  
"That's not the normal procedure," Art frowned, "the witness has someone from the DA's office assigned in case of questions. So why contact us? When did Raylan leave?"  
Tim checked his watch, frowning at the time. "Uhm... about three hours ago."  
"That witness lives here in town, right?" Art was starting to get suspicious now.  
"Yeah," Tim answered slowly.  
"That's way too long, I'm not trusting this," Art continued.  
"The witness refused to go into witness protection, claiming none of the perps know who he is." Tim was reaching the same conclusion.  
"Exactly," Art said darkly.  
"I'll go check it out." Tim quickly got to his feet, took his car keys from the desk drawer, and picked his jacket up from the back of his seat. He was halfway through getting his jacket on, when Art stopped him.  
"Wear a vest, please," the older man said.  
Tim nodded. "You're really not liking this, huh?"  
"No," Art said gravely, "Raylan Givens is many things, but he is not one to skip work without very good reason, and I doubt he's spending three hours with a witness."  
"True that." Tim put the jacket back on his seat, and would pick up a bulletproof vest on his way out. He was halfway out the door, when he was stopped again.  
"Tim, be careful," Art called after him, "and keep me on speed dial."

* * *

_Three hours earlier_

Raylan had gotten the call around lunchtime. He stared a few seconds at the unknown number on the screen before picking up.  
"Raylan Givens," he answered the call.  
"Deputy Givens, this is Jimmy Tate," it sounded from the other side of the line.  
For just a moment Raylan wondered who he was speaking to. Quickly, though, the name rang a bell, and he recognized the voice.  
Jimmy Tate was a material witness in a drugs bust from a few weeks back. Without this man it would've been hard to make any arrests, or even make the bust at all.  
Even though his statements were highly incriminating, Jimmy Tate had refused any kind of witness protection thus far, claiming he was not known to the people in the drug cartel. Raylan had always highly doubted that, and had urged Tate to accept the protection detail. But since a witness is not obliged to accept it, and Tate had officially refused several times, Raylan's hands had been tied.

"Mr. Tate, good afternoon," Raylan now greeted the caller, "have you changed your mind about that witness protection?"  
"No," Tate answered, "but I do have some questions about the upcoming trial. Is there any possibility we can meet?"  
"I can," Raylan answered, silently wondering if Tate was having second thoughts and would be recanting his statement, "but you have someone assigned to you from the DA's office for questions regarding the trial. Have you called them already?"  
"No," Tate answered, "the woman they assigned to me, I don't know, we just don't have a connection. I would really like to talk to you. Can you meet me at my house in thirty minutes?"  
"Sure," Raylan answered, deciding he would do this if it saved the case, "why the rush, though?"  
"No reason," Tate quickly replied, "it's just that I've got time now."  
Raylan was a little suspicious about this request, but decided to give Tate the benefit of the doubt.  
"Alright, I'll come over," he said, "what's the address again?"  
Raylan wrote down the address as Tate repeated it. He promised to be there within thirty minutes, and disconnected the call.

"Going somewhere?"  
Raylan turned around to see Tim emerge from the conference room.  
"Yeah, I gotta go see Jimmy Tate," Raylan answered.  
"That witness from the drugs bust?" Tim sounded surprised.  
"He called," Raylan continued, "I'm worried he might be getting cold feet, so I'm going out to meet him."  
"Is he recanting?" Tim, too, knew that would be bad.  
"No, but he said he wanted more information on the trial." Raylan gave Tim a meaningful look.  
"Hmm," Tim huffed, understanding the hidden meaning immediately, "you got to talk to him, make sure he sticks to his testimony."  
"Exactly," Raylan agreed.

* * *

It was only a short drive from the station to Jimmy Tate's house. Raylan made it there in just under twenty minutes.  
Jimmy Tate lived on the outskirts of Lexington. It wasn't actually secluded, but the next neighbours lived at least a few hundred yards away.  
Raylan parked on the driveway, behind what he assumed was Tate's SUV.  
He looked at the house for a few seconds from the cover of his car. It looked quiet and in order, but something didn't sit right with Raylan. An uneasy feeling had crept up on him. Seeing the house now, the feeling didn't hold much stake, but still he couldn't shake it.

Raylan sighed heavily and got out of his car. The gravel of the garden path crunched under his boots as he walked up to the front door.  
He just had his feet on the porch, a few feet from the front door, when it opened with a crash. Instantly, Raylan knew this uneasy feeling of his had been 100% correct…

In the opening of the door stood a man, whom Raylan recognized as belonging to the drug cartel. They had actually arrested this man at some point during the investigation, but Raylan could not remember his name. All he knew was that they had to let this man go, due to lack of evidence of his involvement in the drug trade or the cartel.

The man was holding a rifle. The barrel was aimed, with deadly precision, at Raylan's chest.  
"Deputy Givens," the man spoke, "Mr. Tate told me you were coming."  
"I bet he did," Raylan sighed agitatedly, raising his hands slightly in surrender. He knew he had no other choice but to comply. There would be no time to go for his weapon. Even if this cartel scum was a lousy shot, missing from this distance would be a feat.  
"Throw your weapons away, into the garden beds," the man instructed, "both of them, slowly."  
Raylan carefully reached for his sidearm, unholstered it, and threw it into the bushes next to the porch steps. He repeated this with his back-up firearm.  
"Now, come in," the man said. He stepped aside to clear the doorway for Raylan to enter the house, but made sure to keep the marshall at gunpoint the entire time.  
Raylan moved slowly, making sure not to make any unexpected moves. He stepped over the threshold and passed the man holding the rifle. Something in the man's eye did not sit right with Raylan, and he immediately had a sure feeling he would leave this house in an ambulance. If he got to leave at all...

The front door closed behind him with a click.  
"Stop right there!" The man ordered Raylan, stopping him in the middle of the hallway. Raylan made to turn around.  
"No! Keep your back to me!" The man ordered him again.  
"Where's Tate?" Raylan asked.  
"Soon to be dead," the man answered. Raylan did not have any doubts that he was telling the truth.  
"And I assume it was your idea for him to be calling me?" Raylan deduced.  
"I thought I'd catch two flies at once," the man sneered, "you, too, know a little too much about our operations by now."

Raylan ventured a careful step forward, so he could just peek into the living room at the end of the hallway. Like he had been suspecting, Jimmy Tate was lying on the living room floor, blood pooling all around him. If he wasn't dead already, he would indeed soon be.  
"Oh, shit," Raylan mumbled.  
"I believe I told you not to move!" The man hissed.  
Raylan was sure he was treading on thin ice, and that he needed to be extra careful.  
He just now started to appreciate running into Tim before he left the station. Tim would surely notice him not returning within reasonable time, and hopefully would round up the cavalry to come looking.  
"You didn't waste any time in killing him, huh?" Raylan commented with a hefty sigh. His eye only now fell on the opened drawers and upturned cupboards, as if someone had been searching for something.  
"What are you looking for?" He asked in a further attempt to stall, trying to buy himself as much time as possible.  
"Nothing in particular, just making sure there are no loose ends," the man answered with an evil grin.  
"Found it?" Raylan asked airily.  
"I have now."

The man's voice sounded closer by, and suddenly Raylan felt the barrel of the rifle against his lower back. His breath involuntarily caught in his throat. He had been vigilant, but still this man had managed to creep closer without him noticing.  
"So, you came here looking for me?" Raylan continued his stalling tactics. Although, with the man having gotten this close to him, new possibilities had opened up, and the hint of a plan started brewing in his mind.  
Raylan remembered Tate had once casually mentioned that he owned a handgun, which he kept on the nightstand in his bedroom. With his own two guns confiscated, and going for the man's rifle way too risky, Raylan knew he did not have much choice but to make a dash for Tate's gun.  
This, too, would be a risky move, though. It could get him killed, or at least injured. The man moving closer had brought him within reach of Raylan's legs. One well-aimed kick backwards, might just give him enough of a headstart to make it.  
Raylan, however, did have to make a calculated guess. He knew nothing of this house. From what he could see from standing here in the hallway, he guessed it were only a living room and kitchen on the ground floor. There was a flight of stairs to his left, which went up to the upper floor and, hopefully, the bedrooms.  
"My colleagues are on their way over here," Raylan decided to give it one last try to end this situation peacefully.  
"Well, they won't be in time to save you," the man growled.  
Raylan felt the gun press a little harder into his back, and realized it was now or never.

Raylan acted fast. He kicked back with all the force he could muster. The heel of his boot connected hard with the man's knee. A sickening, crunching sound meant he must've broken a bone.  
The man screamed out in pain and stumbled to the floor. Raylan had hoped the man would drop the rifle, but his grip around the weapon remained too strong to try and take it from him.

This was Raylan's chance.  
He dashed for the stairs and hurried upstairs three steps at a time. He heard the man scrambling around behind him, trying to get to his feet.  
Raylan managed to get to the first floor landing, and disappear out of sight from the hallway before the man had fully succeeded.  
He did not know which of the rooms was the master bedroom. On a wild guess, Raylan ran into the room at the end of the upstairs landing. His guess seemed right: the room was a large bedroom with a kingsize bed. There was a nightstand on either side of it.  
Raylan quickly dashed for the one on the left side of the bed, and started pulling open the drawers. No weapon to be seen…

From downstairs, Raylan heard the man cock his rifle and stumble around with grunts of pain. The loud stumbles came closer, and Raylan knew the man was slowly making his way up the stairs.  
Raylan scrambled over the bed to the other nightstand, and started pulling open more drawers. The second one he pulled open hit the jackpot. It was only a small handgun, but a well-aimed shot would still do the trick. The gun felt light in his hands as he aimed it at the hallway and the stairs at the end of it.  
Raylan knew the man would only need to get halfway up the stairs to get a clean shot at the marshal.

Raylan slowly emerged from the bedroom, creeping along in the direction of the stairs.  
He was about halfway, when he spotted the man.  
This was his chance. The man was off balance on the stairs with his broken leg, meaning he didn't have his weapon fully ready to fire.  
Raylan aimed his gun and pulled the trigger without a second thought.

Click…

The weapon went through the motions of going off, but never did fire a bullet.  
Raylan pulled the trigger again, but for the second time it was nothing more than an empty click.  
"Shit!" Raylan knew he was fucked. He stumbled backwards, back to the master bedroom, but he never made it that far…

Raylan had taken only two strides, before the gunshot resonated through the house.  
The bullet hit him with the force of a sledgehammer, and tore into the left side of his abdomen.  
Raylan fell backwards onto the carpet, and his world went black…


	2. Chapter 2

Tim sure broke some speed limits on his way over to Tate's house. He really hadn't noticed the time until Art had mentioned it, but now that he knew, he was truly worried about Raylan's well-being.

He steered his car into the dead-end street that ultimately turned into the gravel of Tate's driveway.  
Tim parked at the end of the road, where the asphalt ended and the gravel began. Parking here meant he could go up to the house a little less noticeably.  
He stepped out of his car, took his gun out of its holster and checked the magazine. It was filled to the brim with bullets, as it should be. Tim sighed in nervous anticipation, before straightening himself up to his full height and tensing all his muscles into activity. He started down the driveway, gun at the ready.

Even from a distance, Tim could see Raylan's car parked in front of the house. So whatever had happened to the marshal, Raylan had at least made it here.  
Tim crept closer, making sure to keep to the side of the driveway and out of the most direct line of sight from inside the house.  
He slowly stepped onto the porch. So far there had not been any sure signs that something was wrong, but his gut told him a whole different story. Gun at the ready, he loudly knocked on the front door.

"Mr. Tate? Marshal's office, open the door!"  
Tim took a step back to create some more space between himself and whoever would answer his knock. He held his gun with both hands now, one forefinger gently resting against the trigger.  
"Mr. Tate, Marshal's office," Tim repeated when nothing happened.  
This time he heard movement from inside, and not the kind he had hoped for. It sounded like someone stumbling around and glass breaking.  
"Raylan, you in there?" Tim took a step forward and tried the doorknob. The door clicked free from the lock. Tim pushed it open, and immediately raised his gun in front of him, ready to fire at anyone who would appear in his line of sight.  
Tim stood unmoving on the threshold for a few seconds, watching for the slightest of movements and listening for any sounds.  
"Raylan?" He called out to his partner again, but the house remained eerily quiet.  
Tim cautiously stepped over the threshold and into the hallway, followed by another slow step forward.

It happened in a split-second…

At the end of the hallway, a door on the right-hand side led to the living room. Suddenly a man came crashing out of it, handling a rifle.  
The blast from the rifle echoed through the house. The man had fired it way too soon, though, making the bullet tear through the wooden doorframe, before it hurtled in Tim's direction.  
The bullet hit Tim in the left shoulder. It tore into his flesh just above the armpit, about the only part of his shoulder which was left unprotected by his bulletproof vest.  
His reaction was instantaneous. Driven by nothing rather than pure instinct and trust in his skills, Tim fired one bullet back.

He didn't miss. He never missed.  
The bullet hit the man in the forehead, dropping him dead to the ground instantly.

Tim stumbled back a few paces until his back hit the wall. He groaned in pain as he looked down at his injured shoulder. It was a long time since he had been shot, the last time had been in Iraq, and he had forgotten how much it hurt. He groaned under his breath, as blood started to stain his shirt.  
Getting hit was quite unfortunate. An inch to the left and his vest would have taken the bullet, an inch to the right and the bullet would have only grazed him. The only luck he had had, was the bullet tearing through the doorframe first, which meant it had already lost most of its velocity before embedding itself in Tim's flesh.

Tim quickly recollected himself. Right now, he still had no idea if this was the only perp in the house. For all he knew, there could be a dozen more assailants trying to off him.  
He pushed himself off the wall, adrenaline taking over from the pain. Holding his gun in front of him, he carefully made his way to the living room. The man who had shot him now had a bullet in his brain, so Tim had no doubt that man was dead. He had killed dozens of Taliban this way over in Iraq, and none of them had ever gotten back up, so why would this one?  
Tim looked down as he passed the man, but the eyes definitely had the glazed look of the dead.

Tim turned into the living room in a swift, fluent motion. He had expected to be met with another assailant or another gun, but instead looked down upon the lifeless body of Jimmy Tate. The witness lay sprawled upon his own living room rug, blood all around him, and three bullet holes in his chest.  
"Shit…" Tim didn't even need to check a pulse to know Tate was dead.  
He quickly cleared the living room and the attached kitchen, but found no one else.

Tim moved back to the hallway and to the foot of the stairs. Slowly and attentively, he moved up the stairs, gun at the ready in front of him again. With each step he took, more and more of the first floor landing came into view. Then his eyes spotted something which nearly gave him a heart attack.  
"Oh, fuck!"  
  


* * *

  
Raylan slowly came to. The pain to his stomach was immense, and he immediately knew he had lost quite some blood. He had probably been out for a while, and hoped furiously Art or Tim would start missing him by now, and would decide to come looking.  
Raylan carefully tried to move his arms and legs. All seemed to work fine. Good, this meant the bullet had at least not damaged his spine.  
He was just contemplating about trying to drag himself to the stairs to have a look at his attacker's condition, when he heard it: a loud knock on the door, followed by a familiar voice calling out.  
"Mr. Tate? Marshal's office, open the door!"

"Tim…" Raylan groaned weakly. He recognized his partner's voice out of thousands, and this was truly the voice of a saviour to him. But Raylan also worried. He knew he hadn't been able to kill his attacker, so that meant Tim would probably be met by the same rifle that had welcomed him earlier.

Raylan had to do something. He could not allow Tim to be led to slaughter like this.  
It took him a few attempts and a lot of biting through excruciating pain, but Raylan finally managed to roll himself onto his stomach. The pain it caused was so intense that it left him seeing black spots and the urge to scream out. Especially screaming out was something he wanted to prevent at any cost. It might throw Tim off his guard, and might betray to the assailant that Raylan wasn't quite dead yet.  
Raylan stretched his arms out in front of him as far as they would go, and tried to drag himself forward. It was painful, and he had only been able to move a few feet, when he heard it…

A gunshot.  
Another gunshot.  
Someone or something falling to the floor.  
Someone groaning in pain.

Raylan kept quiet. He could still hear stumbling from downstairs, but he couldn't possibly determine whether it was Tim or the assailant.  
The footsteps from downstairs came closer, and Raylan knew that, whomever it was, would eventually come looking upstairs. He painfully maneuvered himself onto his side again, so he would have a more unobstructed view of the top of the stairs. Someone was definitely coming up, Raylan could hear the steps creak underneath their feet. He closed his eyes. If it turned out to be the assailant coming up the stairs, it would be better they didn't immediately see Raylan was alive and conscious.

"Oh, fuck…"

Raylan's eyes flew open. He saw Tim clearing the last few steps and come running in his direction.  
"Tim…" Raylan groaned weakly, "you're not dead."  
"They sure tried." Tim dropped to his knees beside Raylan and had immediately spotted his partner's injury.  
Raylan gritted his teeth together as Tim took a better look at the gunshot wound.  
"Ah, shit…" A slight hint of panic was audible in Tim's voice. He took out his phone to place a call. There was only half a second of the line ringing when it was already answered.  
"Tim?" Art took the call.  
"Send a team over here," Tim instantly got to the point, "we need crime scene guys, coroner… and an ambulance."  
Art uttered a string of curses on the other side of the line before he continued.  
"Please tell me Raylan needs the ambulance, not the coroner."  
"He's alive. He took a bullet to the stomach," Tim answered.  
"How serious is it?" Art asked.  
Tim hesitated, because he knew Raylan could hear Art speak on the other side of the line.  
"It's serious." Tim decided to speak the truth.  
"We'll be there in ten," Art concluded the conversation.

Tim turned his attention back to Raylan.  
"I gotta keep pressure on that," he mumbled, more to himself than to Raylan.  
He jumped to his feet and disappeared into the bathroom further down the hallway. Only a few seconds later, he emerged again, carrying an armful of towels.  
"Don't you dare," Raylan mumbled weakly as Tim sat down on the floor beside him again.  
"I have to, Raylan. You want to bleed to death?!" The undertone of panic in Tim's voice had become more pronounced, which was unsettling.  
Tim took a few towels from the stack and fumbled them together. He didn't hesitate, and pressed the towels into Raylan's wound.  
Raylan started a scream in pain, but bit his teeth together to keep it in and diminish it to a loud groan.

Keeping pressure on Raylan's wound made Tim's own gunshot wound sear and throb. He wasn't sure for how long he would be able to ignore his own pain, but, for now, he wasn't releasing the pressure. It could mean the difference between life and death for Raylan.

Raylan was starting to feel real bad now. Tim's hands were firmly pressed onto his stomach, trying to slow the bleeding. This had always been something Raylan wished Tim would never have to do for him. He had heard only snippets of what Tim had seen in the war, but it was enough to know that situations like these might bring back bad memories.  
Raylan was pulled out of his thought, when he heard Tim's breath get shaky beside him. He slowly opened his eyes and looked up at his partner. Beads of sweat lined Tim's face, and his eyes looked moist, as if he was about to burst into tears.  
Even though his vision was getting blurry from the blood loss, Raylan was able to make out the dark stain on Tim's shoulder.  
"W-were you hit?" Raylan's voice sounded croaky and weak.  
Tim only nodded curtly with tightly clenched jaws.  
"Why didn't you tell me?" Raylan asked softly.  
"And then what?!" Tim immediately regretted the harshness in his voice.  
"Sorry…" He added softly.  
Raylan tried to produce a smile, but could only manage a choky cough.  
"I'll be fine," Tim mumbled, refusing to meet his partner's eye.  
Raylan knew this could only mean one thing: Tim was anything but fine. He himself was in no state to do anything about it, so he fiercely hoped Art or Rachel would notice once they got here.

Tim and Raylan sat silently for a while. The both of them suffering quietly from their injuries.  
Even though Tim's best efforts, Raylan was still losing a fair amount of blood, and the effects of it were becoming crystal clear. Raylan was pale as a sheet, with a thin sheen of sweat covering his face, neck and chest. He was shivering constantly now, and black spots blurred his vision ever more. The world was starting to drift far away. He could not fight it much longer: he was going to pass out again.

"Raylan? Stay with me."

He heard Tim talk to him, but he had no strength left to re-open his eyes.  
"I'm sorry, Tim…" Raylan breathed out, and sank away into unconsciousness…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading. Next chapter will be up asap.  
> Please R and R ;-)


	3. Chapter 3

Tim checked his watch every thirty seconds or so. His call to Art had been nearly fifteen minutes ago, and he wished for the chief to arrive soon.  
Raylan had passed out a few minutes earlier, and Tim hadn't been able to wake him up again. It was the loss of blood, Tim was sure of it. It had simply become too much, making this situation even more dire than it already was.

Finally, a very welcome sound reached his ears: distant sirens wailing, their sound getting closer.  
"Hold on, Raylan," Tim mumbled to his partner, even though he knew the words went unheard.  
Now that help was so near, Tim felt his own nerves get out of control again. His hands started trembling, and his breaths were getting shaky and fast.  
"Come on, hold it together!" He scolded himself.

The sirens from outside were real close now, and only seconds later Tim heard tires race over the gravel of the driveway. There were commands being called around, and the sounds of guns readying was unmistakable. Any second now…  
The SWAT team entered the house with an enormous noise. There was a lot of yelling and running footsteps. Tim knew they were clearing the house, and it wouldn't be long before they would come upstairs to find Raylan and him.

"Tim?"

Art's voice reached Tim's ears before anyone had even gotten to the upstairs.  
"Art, up here!" Tim yelled back, his voice cracking on the words.  
Art came running up the stairs.  
"Oh, my god…" His eyes found Raylan lying in a pool of his own blood, and Tim, who still had his hands pressed firmly into his partner's wound.  
"Paramedics, up here!" Art yelled to the medical team standing by downstairs.

"Is he alive?" Art hunched on the floor next to Tim. The younger marshal nodded curtly in reply.  
The lack of any verbal response made that Art had a good look at Tim. It didn't take him long to notice the trembling hands and, finally, the gunshot wound.  
"Shit, Tim, you were hit as well?!" Art said incredulously.  
"It's not much, don't worry about me," Tim grumbled.  
"Yeah, well, I do," Art answered curtly.

More footsteps came up the stairs, revealing two paramedics carrying up a gurney.  
"Let's give them some space to do their job." Art took Tim's elbow and tried to get him to stand up.  
"No, no… I gotta keep pressure… the bleeding…" Tim rambled, reluctant to let go.  
"Don't worry, we'll take it from here." One of the paramedics was kneeling on Raylan's other side, ready to take over the moment Tim would pull his hands away.  
"Come on, son, it's alright," Art encouraged gently, "let them do their jobs."  
Tim looked from Art to the paramedic, and slowly raised still trembling hands. He finally got grudgingly to his feet.

Art steered Tim away from Raylan and the paramedics, and sat him down a little further down the hallway. They both watched as the paramedics hooked Raylan up to a heart monitor, got an IV going, and applied a temporary pressure bandage to his abdomen. It was clear they were preparing for an emergency transport, and that an urgent surgery would be needed to remove the bullet and stop the bleeding.  
Tim listened nervously to the rapid beeps of the heart monitor, indicating a too fast rhythm. He tried not to think about what this might mean.  
The tremble in his hands had spread to the rest of his body now. The breaths he took seemed to get lost on the way to his lungs, making him feel choked up. His injured shoulder seared and throbbed painfully, raking up a lot of bad memories from the war.

The paramedics worked swiftly, wasting no time in getting Raylan to be transported to the hospital. It took them about twenty minutes before they believed his condition to be stable enough, and lifted him onto the gurney. They made sure Raylan was securely strapped in, and the IV-lines and wires were unobstructed.  
"He'll be taken to Eastern State Hospital," one of the paramedics turned to Art.  
"Alright, I'll be on your tail," Art answered, "say, you got room for one more?"  
Art gave a careful nod in Tim's direction, who was sitting at his feet.  
"I'm sorry, chief, not for another patient," the paramedic said apologetically.  
"Don't sweat it, I'll take him myself," Art said.  
The paramedics wheeled Raylan away and carefully carried the gurney down the stairs.  
Art waited until the paramedics had cleared the stairs, before he turned to Tim.  
"Come on, son." Art placed a light hand on Tim's uninjured shoulder, "we gotta get you to the hospital, too."  
Again only that wordless nodd, so unlike Tim. The way he held himself and how he was acting, worried Art. Given Tim's war history and diagnosed PTSD, this could easily go the wrong way.  
Tim moved as if in slow-motion, getting to his feet with seemingly a lot of effort.  
Art watched with concern as Tim reached for the wall for support. The young marshal was swaying on his feet and visibly trembling all over.  
"Come on." Art put an arm around Tim's waist to support him, and persuaded him to get moving.

It were baby steps, but Tim was moving. Without Art's support he definitely would not have gotten down the stairs. His legs had turned to Jello-O, and all his muscles seemed to have gone into a trembling frenzy. When they had cleared the final steps of the stairs, Art halted.  
"You good?" He quietly asked.  
"No, but let's keep going," Tim mumbled.  
Art slowly moved again, but they were stopped before they could reach the front door.  
"Chief, hold up!" It was the head of the forensics team.  
Art looked over his shoulder. "Not now, this man needs to go to the hospital."  
"Actually, I need a word with him," the forensics tech answered, "Deputy Gutterson, I need you to surrender the weapon you fired."  
Once again only that wordless nodd. Tim reached for his sidearm and handed it over without protest.  
"I fired once, the bullet should be in the perp's brain," he said emotionlessly.  
"Thank you, Deputy," the forensics tech took over his gun.

Art steered Tim forward again, and moved him in the direction of his car. He gently sat Tim down in the passenger seat. The younger man immediately slouched down as low as he could go, put his feet up on the dashboard, and loosely crossed his arms over his chest.  
"Here," Art threw a towel in Tim's lap, "press this against that wound of yours."  
Tim reluctantly took it and held it lightly against his shoulder. A grimace of pain spread across his face.  
Art closed the car door, and walked around to take up his seat behind the wheel.

The drive to the hospital took about twenty minutes. It was entirely spent in silence.  
Art would occasionally cast a sideways glance at his colleague. Tim sat staring out in the distance, completely turned into himself. His hand holding the towel still rested against his shoulder, but applied no pressure at all. Sometimes he would close his eyes for half a minute. Several times Art believed Tim to have passed out, but when he looked to his side a minute later, Tim's eyes would be open again.

Art parked his car in front of the hospital in a hurry. He jumped out, and trotted around to the other side of the vehicle to help Tim out.  
If Tim had been weak back at the house, he was even weaker now. Without Art's support he was not quite able to walk a straight line.  
"Come on, easy, son," Art soothed, as he helped Tim up the entrance steps and into the waiting area of the hospital's emergency room.  
Tim did not make any sound at all, even though he must be in considerable pain.

"Tim?" Art sat the younger man down on a chair in the waiting area.  
"Hm…" Tim responded lethargically.  
"I'm going to get you signed in and have a doctor look at you straight away," Art explained, "it may take a few minutes, but I'll be right there."  
Art pointed over his shoulder to the admissions desk.  
"Raylan?" Tim mumbled weakly.  
"I'll see if I can get some information on him, too," Art answered, "I'll be right back."  
Art walked over to the admissions desk on the other side of the waiting area, leaving Tim for just a few minutes.

But then, Tim broke…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading. All likes and comments are still highly appreciated :-)  
> Next chapter will be up again asap


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very huge apology for the hiatus on this story... :-(  
> But, I'll continue this now. Hope you'll still like it ;-) All kudos and comments are highly appreciated ;-)

Tim felt it happen, and it scared him beyond anything he had ever felt.  
The feeling was suffocating, spiking his heart rate and constricting his chest. His breaths turned to short, wheezing hitches, leaving him feeling short of oxygen. Every muscle in his body was trembling now. The anxiety coursed through his veins at high speed, infecting him completely with it.  
A heartbreaking whimper escaped Tim's lips as he scrambled to his feet. He stumbled over to the nearest wall and placed both hands flat against it, leaning into it with his head bent low and his back turned to the waiting room.

Art was alerted by the sudden wave of concerned murmurs rising up from the dozen other people in the waiting area. He turned around to look for the source of the commotion and immediately knew the shit had hit the fan.

"Tim?"  
Art apprehensively approached the young deputy. If anything, this looked even worse than what Art had seen in Tim so far today. Of course Art knew about Tim's army history and how he suffered from PTSD after the war. Today's events had been trying enough without the possibility of it raking up painful memories of a war.  
As Art got closer, he realized his suspicions might very well be true. Tim was trembling all over and Art could hear the wheezing of his breaths.  
"Tim? Calm down, son, look at me." Art carefully reached for the younger man's shoulder.  
Tim reacted as if he'd been burned. He spun round, pressing his back against the wall, and holding his hands at arm's length in front of him to keep Art at a distance.

Fuck. This was bad…

"Tim, calm down. We're getting you help. You're going to be okay." Art took a careful step forward to test Tim's response. To his relief, Tim did not react to it.

Good. Maybe there still was a chance to get this situation under control after all.

Art took another step forward, keeping a sharp eye on Tim. Even though Tim had had to surrender his sidearm at the crime scene, Art realized the back-up weapon was probably still in the waistband of Tim's jeans.  
"Tim?" Art was finally close enough to take Tim's wrists in his hands. They felt like leaves shaking in the wind.  
"I'm sorry, boss… I can't, I can't..." Tim crumpled to his knees, shaking uncontrollably.  
"Let me help you, son." Art kneeled down in front of Tim, their faces now level.  
"Please…" Despair dripped from that single word, and Tim's tears now started to fall.  
"Of course..." Art gently squeezed Tim's wrists, before releasing them. He was sure enough now Tim would not attempt to hurt himself or others. Tim's hands fell limply onto his lap, as he sat crying quietly now.

Art looked over his shoulder. Just like he had hoped, some doctors and nurses had gathered behind him to assess the situation. He got to his feet and turned to the nearest doctor.  
"This man needs immediate care for that gunshot wound," he began, "and do you have a psychiatrist on call?"  
"Absolutely, sir," the doctor answered, "I will tend to this young man myself, and I will give our on-call psych a call."  
Art nodded gratefully. "Thank you."

Art turned back to Tim. He hooked his hands under Tim's elbows and pulled him up on his feet. He slung Tim's arm around his shoulder to support him.  
"We're going to exam room 3, I'll show you the way," one of the nurses said. She led the way to the side of the waiting room, and finally into a treatment room.  
"The doctor will be with you shortly, she announced.  
Art guided Tim to the treatment table and sat him down upon it.  
"Thank you," Tim mumbled softly.  
"Don't mention it," Art answered.  
There was a little while of silence, before Tim spoke again.  
"I'll hand in my badge tomorrow." He avoided to look at Art, instead fixing his eyes on his hands resting in his lap.  
"Why the hell would you do that?" Art asked sharply, frowning.  
"Like you would want someone like me on your squad," Tim scoffed.  
"And why wouldn't I?" Art retorted.  
"I'm a mess…" Tim mumbled brokenly.  
"Right now, I can't disagree with that," Art answered with a hint of sarcasm. Tim looked up at him.  
"What you've seen in Afghanistan is enough to traumatize even the strongest of men," Art continued seriously now, "I'm not surprised that seeing your partner injured and fighting for his life causes somewhat of a relapse."  
"It means I'm weak," Tim almost whispered.  
"No, it doesn't," Art quickly cut in, "it shows you care."  
Tim remained silent as the essence of those words sank in.  
"So… you're not doubting my mental abilities?" He asked cautiously.  
"No," Art answered confidently, "I'd be more worried if this didn't affect you at all. Do I think you need to talk to someone to process this all? Yes, I do. But you're not alone in that. If I were in your shoes this would mess me up, too."  
The corner of Tim's mouth briefly curled into a smile.  
"Trust me," Art concluded, "I'd hate to see you leave my squad."

They were interrupted by a soft knock on the door and a doctor entering shortly after.  
"Mr. Gutterson?" The doctor started. He was a tall, middle-aged man, whose brown hair started to grey at the temples.  
Tim nodded to confirm he indeed was Mr. Gutterson.  
"Good, I'm Dr. Berg," the doctor continued, "gunshot wound, right?"  
"Yeah," Tim answered, calmer, "shoulder."  
"Alright, let's have a look." Dr. Berg lay down the clipboard he was holding.  
Tim carefully took off his shirt, leaving him with the tank top on he wore underneath. All were splattered with blood, both his own and Raylan's.  
"Do you have a change of clothes at the station?" Art eyed the blood on Tim's clothes.  
Tim nodded. "Yeah."  
"I'll give Rachel a call to bring some over." Art announced, before leaving the exam room to make the call.

Dr. Berg inched closer to Tim. He felt and pressed the area around the wound. It hurt, but Tim didn't make a sound.  
"Seems you were lucky," Dr. Berg sat back, "the bullet didn't go too deep. I should be able to remove it with just a small incision. The wound bled quite a bit, but the damage looks minimal. Also, your collarbone seems intact, which is the biggest plus."  
"What's going to happen now?" Tim asked somewhat sullenly.  
"I'm going to get the bullet out and dress the wound," Dr. Berg explained, "after that, I want to keep you here overnight. Get some fluids into you, some antibiotics to prevent infection, and maybe a blood transfusion. And as your boss requested, someone will come over to talk to you."  
Tim didn't respond to that last remark.

Before the doctor could commence the treatment, Art returned to the room.  
"They need me back at the crime scene to sign off on a few things," he announced, "will you be alright here for a while, Tim?"  
"Yeah, I think so." Tim wasn't too happy with Art leaving. The older man's presence had been comforting, but he didn't feel like admitting to it.  
"I'll be back in an hour and a half, two at most," Art assured him. He gave Tim a soft pat on the knee, before departing again.

"Alright, Mr. Gutterson," Dr. Berg started, "lie back, please. I will administer a local anaesthetic."  
Tim complied, and lay flat on the treatment table.  
"You may feel a little drowsy or dizzy. Those can be side effects, nothing to worry about." Dr. Berg injected the anaesthetic on a few points around Tim's wound.  
Tim lay absolutely still as Dr. Berg extracted the bullet from his shoulder, disinfected the wound, and stitched it all up. He didn't feel a thing of it, but wasn't at ease. He found his mind wander off more and more. Mostly his thoughts were haunted by Raylan. Where would he be now? Would he be out of surgery yet? Would he be alright in the end?

"Mr. Gutterson?

Tim was startled by Dr. Berg calling his name. He hadn't consciously realized that he had his eyes closed until now.  
"We're all done here," Dr. Berg smiled gently, "I will escort you to one of our rooms where you will have to stay overnight."  
"Yeah," Tim answered timidly. He sat up, and felt the world spin slightly around him.  
"That's normal," Dr. Berg had seen it, "you lost more than a pint of blood, so you might feel lightheaded for the next 24 hours."  
"Doctor?" Tim asked, "do you know anything about my colleague, Raylan Givens? He was also shot, and should be in this hospital, too."  
"He's in surgery. One of my very skilled colleagues is currently working on him," Dr. Berg answered, "once Mr. Givens gets out of surgery, he'll be sharing the room with you. Special request from your chief."  
A brief smile crossed Tim's face. Of course Art would arrange that, and he was very grateful for it.


	5. Chapter 5

Art returned to the hospital some two and half hours later. His business back at the crime scene had taken longer that he had hoped it would. Luckily, Rachel had been able to take over the final administrative tasks, so Art could go to the station and collect a change of clothes for Tim.

On his way back to the hospital, Art received a phone call from Raylan's attending surgeon.  
The surgery had been a success. They were able to remove the bullet and stop the bleeding, and no vital organs were hit. Raylan had lost a lot of blood, though, and a long road to recovery still lay ahead of him.

As Art had requested, Raylan and Tim shared a private room. He hoped it would do Tim some good to be able to see how Raylan was doing, and provide the young deputy with some much needed peace of mind.

A nurse escorted Art to the appointed room. It was in a quiet hallway on the hospital's third floor.  
Just before Art could enter, a middle-aged man carrying a clipboard, exited the room.  
"Chief Mullen?" The man turned to Art.  
"Yes?" Art wasn't sure how or why this man knew his name.  
"My name is Greg Stevens," the man continued, "I am the psychiatrist on duty tonight."  
"Oh," Art understood, "thank you for getting here so fast."  
"No problem," Dr. Stevens answered with a professional smile.  
"I know you can't go into detail, and I don't need to know those, but will Tim be alright?" Art looked expectantly at the doctor.  
"He will need time to process this," Dr. Stevens answered, "but I don't see why he shouldn't be alright in a little while."  
Art sighed in relief. "That's good news."  
"For now, he needs rest," Dr. Stevens continued, "he will be staying overnight. One of the nurses administered a sedative. It will make sure he has a good night's sleep."  
Art expressed his gratitude once more, before saying his goodbyes to the doctor.

Art quietly entered Raylan and Tim's room. The lights were turned down low and daylight outside was fading, making it dimly lit.  
There were two hospital beds on the right hand side of the room. The first bed, the one closest to the door, was occupied by Raylan. A screen next to Raylan's bed displayed several numbers, giving information about the unconscious marshall's vitals.  
Most of the numbers didn't mean much to Art. The only one that made sense to him, and the only one he really cared about, was the number '90' next to a small pictogram of a heart. It meant Raylan was still there. That his heart was still beating in his chest, and that the attack of today had not succeeded in killing him.  
Art's gaze shifted from the monitor to the man occupying the bed. Raylan was unconscious, and the doctors predicted he could remain that way ranging from a few hours to a few days.

Art passed a hand over his face, and blew out a deep breath. Today had been a close call, way too close for his comfort.  
He walked further into the room and halted at the foot of the other bed, which was occupied by Tim. The younger marshall lay on his side, sleeping soundly. It was the sedative that had pulled him under, but Art was glad to know Tim had calmed down.  
Just above the edge of the covers, Tim's bandaged shoulder was visible. His gunshot wound was in a painful area, but was anything but life-threatening.

Art turned around. On the other side of the room was a sitting area, consisting of a two-seater sofa and a low coffee table. He sat himself down on the sofa, and switched on the lamp.  
The overdue case files he had grabbed off his desk were supposed to get him through the night, since Art didn't expect to be getting much sleep out here on this crappy sofa.  
It was going to be a long night…

* * *

_The screaming. That awful, blood curdling screaming. That was what would haunt him for months to come, and what would still haunt him sometimes._

_It had taken Tim a long time to admit he could not process what had happened in Iraq. Events that had injured him and two other soldiers, and had killed five more._

_One night in Iraq, about a week before the end of his tour, the American camp was attacked by rebels. Eventually, it was successfully defended, but not before one of the rebels had managed to set off a bomb in the middle of the camp. Five American soldiers were killed, fifteen others severely injured, of which Tim was one.  
He was hit by shrapnel from the bomb, but before that he had already taken a bullet to the chest. Even though seriously injured, Tim managed to get off a few rounds, and, as always, he didn't miss.  
When the last rebel dropped dead, that was when the screaming started. The screaming that would not leave Tim alone for a long time._

Tim jerked awake and sat upright in one fluent motion. For a moment, he was disorientated and didn't know where he was, but slowly he came to his senses and recognized his hospital room.

"Tim?" Art's voice sounded from the other side of the room.  
The older man looked at Tim with a worried expression on his face.  
"I'm sorry, chief," Tim buried his face in his hands, "I didn't mean to scare you."  
He heard Art stand up and walk over to him. When Tim raised his head again, the older man was next to him.  
"You okay?" Art asked.  
"Yeah," Tim sighed, "it's just been a long time since I last dreamt of the war."  
"Do you remember anything about your episode of this afternoon?" Art asked carefully.  
"Vividly," Tim answered darkly.  
"I think it's safe to say Raylan and yourself getting shot caused somewhat of a relapse in your PTSD," Art stated carefully.  
"Undoubtedly," Tim grumbled, "still, this never happened to me before. I've been involved in several shootings since I joined the Marshalls, I've seen colleagues take bullets, but it never caused any problems. I just don't understand…"

Art could see this really bothered Tim. He sat down on the edge of Tim's bed, and looked sympathetically into his youngest deputy's eyes.  
"In any of the other shootings, were you hit?" He asked.  
Tim shook his head. "No."  
"Were any of the colleagues your direct colleagues or people that you might consider friends?" Art continued.  
"Not really," Tim answered hesitantly, not understanding Art's point yet.  
"Raylan is your partner, and I know you consider him a friend," Art concluded, "perhaps that caused you to take this one a little harder. Also, Raylan didn't take a bullet to the arm or leg. No, the hit he took could easily have killed him."  
Tim thought for a few seconds on those words. "I guess you're right."  
"You should get some more sleep," Art changed the subject, letting this rest for now. "Do you need anything for the pain, or something to help you sleep?"  
"No, I'm fine." Tim shook his head.  
"Tell me if you change your mind." Art shortly patted Tim's leg, before retreating back to the sofa.

Tim settled back into his pillow. His eyes were drawn to Raylan over in the next bed.  
His partner lay on his back, peaceful. If you didn't know about the more serious reason, one could just assume him to be sleeping.  
Tim shifted his gaze back to the ceiling above him. Art was probably right: the reason he took this so hard was that it involved Raylan. His partner. His friend.  
Still, it didn't feel good to relive all these feelings again. Feelings and a state of his head he believed to have left behind, and frankly, it was frightening this could still resurface so easily.  
The conversation he had had with the hospital's shrink had done him good, and the talks to Art earlier today and just now that truly calmed him down, but the person he longed to talk to the most, was Raylan. Tim was sure that would give him the much-needed closure to eventually move on from this.

* * *

The next time Tim woke up again, the light of the sun had started to creep into the hospital room. His watch, which he always wore with the clock on the inside of his wrist, told him it was just past 6 am.

Great.  
Even when injured and feeling lousy, he still wasn't able to sleep past 6.30 am.  
Tim sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He rested his face in his hands, sighing heavily.

"Tim?"

He didn't know how many times in the past twelve hours his name had been spoken to him with an added question mark and an undertone of concern, but the voice that had spoken now, was one Tim longed to hear.

"Raylan?" Tim looked over his shoulder to the other bed. His partner still lay in the same position, but his eyes were definitely open and seeking contact with him.  
"Hey, buddy." Tim moved and swung his legs over the other side of the bed, now facing Raylan.  
"You were mumbling in your sleep," Raylan said softly.  
"Yeah, I'm sorry. Bad dreams," Tim answered a little dejectedly, "how're you feeling?"  
"Fantastic." The sarcasm dripped from Raylan's voice. "Never better."  
Tim flashed a brief smile. "And seriously now?"  
"Could be worse," Raylan answered, "bit dizzy, but that should be the blood loss."  
"Hm," Tim hummed softly, followed by a silent nod.

Raylan watched his partner for a few seconds.  
"Art told me what happened." He finally broke their silence.  
Tim automatically looked round at the sofa, and only now realized that Art was no longer in the room.  
"Where has he gone?" Tim asked.  
"Had to go to the station. I woke up some time before you, and had a word with him then," Raylan answered.  
Once again nothing more than that silent nod from Tim.  
"Tim, you're evading the subject," Raylan remarked somewhat sharply.

Tim sighed heavily in response, his gaze directed at his knees. All he had wanted was to talk to Raylan, but now that the moment was there, he wasn't sure how much he wanted to share. How much he felt he _could_ share.

"What happened?" Raylan pushed on.  
"You were shot when you went to speak to Jimmy Tate," Tim said.  
"I know what happened to me," Raylan said bluntly, "I meant you."  
Tim took a breath as if he meant to say something, but swallowed the words before they were spoken.

Raylan pushed himself more upright. It was painful, but he felt the need to be able to look at Tim with a little more force.  
"I relapsed…" Tim's voice broke over the last word.  
"How come?" Raylan encouraged him to continue.  
"I think because I took a bullet as well," Tim mumbled, "that hasn't happened since Iraq. And because it involved you."  
"What about me?" Raylan didn't immediately catch the meaning of that.  
"Well, you're my partner, my friend…" Tim answered.  
"Oh…" Raylan said softly, feeling stupid that he hadn't caught onto that in the first place.  
"But I'm okay now," Tim added.  
"Sorry to say, but you don't look okay," Raylan retorted.  
Tim looked up at him. The expression on his face held the middle between anger and utter depression.  
"Tim, I mean no harm," Raylan said earnestly, "Art told me what happened in the hospital waiting room, and I just… worry."  
"Thanks for the concern," Tim mumbled, sounding ashamed, "and I'm sorry."  
"If it wasn't for you, I would probably not be sitting here," Raylan grinned, "so you've got a little credit."  
"That was the thing that pushed me over the edge," Tim suddenly confessed.  
Afraid that a reaction would shut Tim down again, Raylan remained quiet.  
"Keeping pressure on your wound, getting your blood on my hands," Tim's voice had gone barely audible, "that's what took me back."

Raylan realized that he did not know what had exactly happened to Tim in Iraq. He knew Tim had sustained an injury during his tour and suffered from PTSD after he got back, but Raylan had never dared ask for any further details.

"What you did, saved my life, and I cannot thank you enough for it," Raylan emphasized, "I don't know what happened to you during the war, and I don't need to know, but it does bother me that I am the cause of your setback."  
Tim shook his head. "I should have insisted on going with you the moment you got the call."  
"And I probably would have refused that," Raylan countered, "you're not going to blame this on yourself, Tim. You acted when you had to, and you acted well."  
"Do you think Art will be mad at me?" Tim asked quietly.  
Raylan raised an eyebrow at his partner. "Why would he be? Because you had a relapse?"  
Tim hummed softly.  
"You're batshit crazy, you know that?" Raylan instantly reacted.  
Tim looked at him with wide eyes.

"Of course he's not mad at you," Raylan continued, more gently now, "Art is the only person in the entire station who knows your full history. He decided to hire you and, as far as I can tell, you haven't let him down."  
Tim pondered over Raylan's words. "Maybe you're right."  
"Not maybe, I _am_ right," Raylan retorted with a crooked smirk. He watched Tim closely, taking in every feature of his partner's slender stature. From the sad look in his eyes, to the slim fingers which had pulled a trigger so many times.

"Don't sweat it. Really," Raylan tried to sooth, "you should focus on recovering from this. Talk to someone, process it, and learn from it."  
"I will," Tim said softly.  
"I mean it," Raylan added, "I wouldn't want to lose you as my partner."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading. Hope you liked it.   
> All kudos and comments are highly appreciated :-)


End file.
